


The Chair Apparent

by EldritchTribble



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Bickering, Holodecks/Holosuites, Humor, M/M, Massage, Pining, Resolved Romantic Tension, Solid!Odo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 20:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12092784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EldritchTribble/pseuds/EldritchTribble
Summary: Odo's back pain is making it difficult for him to carry out his duties. Quark decides to make the most of his unrequited (?) affections by writing Odo a certain holo-program.





	The Chair Apparent

It had been the third visit in which Doctor Bashir had done little else but give him a patronizing pat on the shoulder and send him on his way. _Starfleet doctors_ , Odo mused, wincing as he ambled down the Promenade. _Either they ambush you with every hypospray known to the quadrant, or they chalk your perfectly legitimate complaints up to hypochondria, “good posture”, or worse._ His lower back flared with pain in a particularly timely rejoinder. Sighing, Odo pulled a padd out of his pocket and began consulting the week’s criminal activities report. He had half a mind to write up the Bolian whose holdall collided with his shoulder blades at that moment, harried apology notwithstanding.

Odo squinted irritably at the padd. Was it his imagination, or had his eyesight gotten worse since the loss of his shapeshifting abilities?

He had been immersed in conjecture regarding a jewelry theft case when a terse message flashed across his screen. Judging by its content and tone, it was evidently from Quark.

“Odo. Some customers are making a scene at my bar. Could get ugly. Backup would be nice.”

Without bothering to read the rest of the report, Odo stuffed the padd back into his pocket, shaking his head as he kicked a dust mote out of his path.

“Why am I not surprised?” he pondered, somewhat rhetorically. For all the times Quark himself eluded the constable, bewildered him, and sent his investigative methods scampering for the hills, Odo could predict disturbances at the bar like clockwork. It was not difficult to do so, after all: most every day brought an altercation or two. Odo briefly entertained the idea of assigning a permanent detail to the premises, then decided against it - only he possessed sufficient knowledge of Quark’s schemes, and his skills were needed elsewhere more often than not.

Turning smartly on his heel, his back cracking painfully as he did so, he set out for the turbolift.

The first thing Odo noticed as he entered the bar was that Morn was not in his seat. An elderly Vulcan and an emphatic Andorian were exchanging insults in Morn’s usual place, leaving the Lurian no choice but to sulk in a corner and sip gin-and-tonics. Sighing and steeling himself, Odo approached the pair with as much authority as he could manage with one hand clamped to his aching spine.

From behind the counter, Quark turned to stare at Odo. Circumspection and pity mingled uncomfortably on his features. In Quark’s opinion, Odo really needed to swallow that stubborn pride of his and go see Doctor Bashir.

Before long, the constable had heard as much of the story as he thought he was likely to get out of either of them. For once, it had not been one of those double-booking scandals that were liable to crop up each time there was a shift change. The Andorian client had reserved Holosuite #3 until 1500 hours, but had elected to lower its ambient temperature to better suit his mountaineering program. Unhappily for Quark’s Vulcan customer, it could take up to half an hour for a holosuite’s temperature to normalize. As she had intended to run a sauna program set in the Hoobishan Baths, this naturally interfered with her plans. Her predecessor did not regard this as his problem, and was busy arguing as much when Odo arrived.

It seemed to Odo that the solution to their dispute was actually quite straightforward. Folding his arms and clearing his throat, he addressed Quark, all the while peering distrustfully at the two customers.

“Quite frankly, Quark, I would have thought even you capable of resolving this on your own,” he grumbled. Quark shot him a sarcastic simper in reply. “It's merely a question of rescheduling T’Plo’s session and charging this gentleman a fine for fiddling with the temperature controls,” continued Odo, gesturing at the Andorian man. Evidently, this was all the provocation the man needed to begin his litany of grievances anew. Elbowing his way between Odo and the counter, he pointed an accusatory finger at Quark.

“None of this would be a problem if you had updated your holosuites to the latest model,” explained the Andorian with forced patience, as if to a very small and dull child. “Why should I pay for your lack of business sense?”

His condescension annoyed Quark, to be sure - but it was the slight to his lobes for business that could not go unchallenged. The martini glass Quark had been polishing fell to the floor with a tinkling crash. “Watch it,” he commanded, glaring ominously at his erstwhile client.

Sensing a stalemate, the Vulcan woman decided to step in. Just as Broik was cleaning up the remnants of the fallen glass, she ordered a new one from the replicator and placed it delicately on top of the counter. Quark was unsure whether to thank or berate her. Clasping her hands at the small of her back, she calmly addressed her counterpart.

“It is only logical, Mr. Sharf, to assume that not every establishment will use the best equipment available...particularly given the caliber of establishment that you seem to favor,” she added, glancing with veiled distaste around the bar.

All patience of which Sharf was capable, forced and otherwise, vanished in an instant.

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Sharf snapped, a vein pulsing ominously on his forehead.

“Yeah, what is that supposed to mean...” added Quark, clenching an indignant fist around the replacement glass she had given him. _The nerve! They should both be thrown from the Tower of Commerce..._

“Your anger is unwarranted as well as uncontrolled,” declared T’Plo, addressing both Sharf and Quark. “I refuse to enable it by remaining here. Constable Odo, I would appreciate your contacting me once this matter is settled. I have nothing more of relevance to add. Good day.”

With a swift, perfunctory inclination of her head, she quit the premises. A fraught silence ensued, disturbed only by the clinking of glassware and Morn’s perpetually running mouth.

“Hey! You didn’t answer my question!” Quark yelled, slamming his palm onto the counter repeatedly. Either Madam T’Plo had already left the Promenade, or - more likely - she was ignoring him.

Sharf evidently had other ideas about how to get her attention: picking up a bar stool, he hefted it over one shoulder and aimed himself toward the exit.

A glowering constable stood steadfast between him and his goal.

“Put that stool down or I’ll throw you in a holding cell,” Odo warned in a leonine growl.

Sharf seemed unfazed. “Go right ahead,” he replied, throwing the bar stool to the floor with a crash. “See if I care. It'd be better than being in this poor excuse for a bar anyway.”

“ **WATCH IT,** ” snarled Quark, even more offended at the second insult to his bar in five minutes than the destruction of property that preceded it.

Odo surveyed the damage to the parquet, adding up all civil and criminal charges that could possibly ensue from it. “All right,” he declared after some moments. “If that’s the way you want to play it.” He produced a set of handcuffs from his pocket and clamped them around Sharf’s wrists, making no effort to be gentle. “Let's go. Move it along.”

They marched out of the bar, Quark lobbing a dirty dishrag at the back of Sharf’s head for good measure. Odo glared disapprovingly back at Quark but did not otherwise comment.

When Odo returned, Broik was already busy taking measurements of the damaged tile and writing up a requisition order. Quark glanced up from his conversation with Morn and shot Odo an unctuous grin.

“Hey, Odo! Glad to see there’s still such a thing as law enforcement on the station,” he remarked, pulling three small glasses and a bottle of Aldebaran whiskey out from the cabinet. He poured a shot for each of them as Odo approached the counter. Morn downed his immediately with a belch that Quark pretended to ignore. He turned to Odo, playfully resting his chin in his hands.

“I've been negotiating so many lucrative deals recently - you have _no_ idea - but it has been making me worry about you,” continued Quark, sliding Odo’s shot across the counter at him. “You sure you aren’t slipping?” he insinuated as he waggled his browridge.  
  
Odo accepted the glass grudgingly but did not drink from it. “Don't make me regret not throwing you in the brig along with Mr. Sharf,” he muttered, not without a certain fondness. It never ceased to amaze him how Quark managed to get himself into such an astonishing variety of trouble. Perhaps he should throw him in a holding cell on principle, just to be sure. After all, it would prevent future confrontations with unsatisfied customers, or worse.

“Is he ever gonna pay me for the lost holosuite time?” asked Quark. It took Odo a minute to remember who Quark was talking about.

“Do you ever stop thinking about money?” the constable retorted, irritated that Quark had caught him off his guard.

Quark gestured to his ears. “Hello?!?”

Odo uttered a disgusted scoff, then promptly clamped a hand to his back, grunting in pain. Quark looked on with poorly concealed consternation.

“You know, Odo, as much as I’ve been enjoying having the upper hand lately, you really should see Doctor Bashir,” he ventured, relieving Odo of his drink before it had the chance to spill.

The constable glared at him. “I have. Three times.”

“Those Federation doctors, huh? Cloying, bubbly bedside manner with no substance at all.” He slid out from behind the counter and patted Odo smartly on the back, eliciting several indignant coughs. “Lucky for you, I’ve got an empty holosuite and a program that’ll cure what ails you.”

“Hmph. Doubtful.”

“You don’t know what you're missing,” continued Quark, settling into his customary sales pitch. “As it happens, I designed this one just for you. It’d be very rude of you not to take a look.” Faltering, he released his hand from Odo’s back. “Then again, it’s rude of you to threaten me with incarceration over mere trifles and misunderstandings, so there we are,” he concluded softly.

Odo had grown far too accustomed to Quark’s various sales pitches to be moved in the slightest. He communicated as much with a pair of crossed arms and a mutinous stare.

“Come on, Odo...aren’t you curious, at least?” wheedled Quark as he pressed his wrists together. Odo cocked his head to one side, intrigued at how important this was to Quark.

“Even if my judgment were ever compromised enough for me to partake in one of your sordid holo-fantasies, I'm quite sure I couldn't afford to,” the constable argued primly.

“Nah, this one’s on the house. Lemme show you.”

Taking a very suspicious security chief by the elbow, Quark led him into Holosuite #3. Its usual gold-and-black grid greeted them upon entry. Shivering slightly at the temperature, Quark instructed the computer to load his latest program while Odo tapped a skeptical foot.

The simplicity of Quark’s program took Odo by surprise: it consisted only of a small, circular room dimly lit in warm tones. A plush armchair, complete with matching ottoman, sat in its very center. Odo could not help but speculate as to its purpose.

“Let me guess,” remarked Odo, his tone just as singsong as if he were writing Quark up for a minor infraction. “The participant sits there and attractive female holograms proceed to cater to their every whim. So predictable, Quark. Are you sure _you’re_ not slipping?”

“Go and sit in the chair if you want to find out.”

A small device, rather like a remote control, materialized in Quark’s hand. On it was a dizzying array of buttons arranged in concentric patterns.

“What's that for?” Odo inquired petulantly.

“Summoning attractive fe-male holograms, of course,” Quark deadpanned. “Sit in the damn chair already.”

Skeptically, gingerly, Odo did so.

Quark contemplated the remote control as if studying a bill of fare, stroking his chin in a theatrical display of indecision. After some moments under the constable’s unimpressed gaze, he pressed an intricate series of buttons, pausing only to glance up in impish anticipation.

The chair began to recline, then to become warmer by degrees. Odo’s sudden alarm was met with a placating gesture from Quark. At the bartender’s silent behest, Odo settled back down and tried to convince himself that this was all perfectly normal. His eyes darted to the armrests, which were wrapping themselves gently around his hands and squeezing. _Perfectly normal_ , he repeated to himself like a Bajoran devotional mantra. _In any case, Quark wouldn’t set himself up for additional legal troubles. Not this openly, anyway._

Just as Odo was contemplating whether confinement of a security officer constituted a felony or a misdemeanor, something began kneading the back of his neck. Jerking himself back to full alertness, Odo realized that it was, in fact, the chair’s doing. Quark sighed heavily and punched more buttons on his remote, muttering sour nothings. _Grouchy old swamp beetle likes to suffer too much. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea._ For a moment, Quark considered scrapping the program and having Rom recycle it into replicator parts, never to be used again for its intended purpose.

Then, all of a sudden, a sharp, rapturous inhale escaped Odo.

Quark snapped out of his reverie and glanced up in cautious optimism. Odo’s eyes were screwed shut; his hands clamped firmly onto the armrests. He looked profoundly uncomfortable, and yet...that sound he just made! Taking note of its pitch and overtones, Quark filed it away for ‘future reference’.

“Do you...um.” Quark cleared his throat - his voice had gone an octave higher than usual. “Should I end the program?”

With the minutest adjustment, Odo turned to face Quark. The constable’s gaze was level, if unfocused - whether due to pleasure or pain, Quark could not tell.

“I think not,” Odo replied serenely as the chair continued to massage his neck and shoulders. Quark’s heart leapt, but all he dared show Odo was a smarmy grin.

“I’ll instill a vice in you yet,” he murmured, not able to tear his gaze away. On impulse, he pressed a button at random. As if sprouting a new pair of hands, the chair got to work on Odo’s lower back, tentatively probing the torqued muscles surrounding the sacral vertebrae. Odo let out a blissful sigh that put no end of intriguing ideas into Quark’s head. Ideas that Quark very much wanted to bring to fruition at some point.

Still, he had no illusions about his chances. He knew full well that only a bad hew-mon back could have ever lured Odo here in the first place. Maybe Odo would use the program again, maybe not, but the fact remained: he would only accept such attention from Quark in the form of an impersonal proxy. And if his back ever fully recovered, well...

Quark was so steeped in miserable conjecture that he barely heard Odo rasping out his name. He looked absently up from studying his feet.

“Quark...am I to understand - _ahh_ \- that you did all this for my benefit? You of all people?”

Quark let out an embarrassed cough. He had not expected Odo to confront him with inductive insights - not here, not in his own holosuite, not while Odo was supposed to be relaxing. The ingrate.

“Look at it this way,” hedged Quark. “Anytime you’re in that chair is a time you’re not persecuting the most upstanding businessman on the station.” Suddenly overcome with annoyance, he planted his fists on his hips, his tone growing sarcastic. “So no, all this is not just for your benefit, Mr. Ego-The-Size-Of-Bajor. Don’t flatter yourself so much.”

To Quark’s chagrin, his monologue only elicited a knowing smile from Odo.

“Come here, Quark.”

“Wha...?”

Odo’s grin widened. “You have a rather extensive file. I like to think I know when the ‘most upstanding businessman on the station’ is deflecting. Come here.” He disengaged a hand from an armrest and held it out to Quark.

“Um. Okay,” agreed the nonplussed bartender, reaching out in a daze to take Odo’s proffered hand. It was quite warm from the chair’s ministrations. Quark would quickly learn that the rest of Odo was as well: he pulled Quark closer, causing him to trip over the ottoman and land inelegantly on top of Odo. The uncanny limbs of the chair having gone dormant, Odo substituted his own, wrapping Quark in something between an affectionate hug and a full-body vise. It was soothing, invigorating, not a little arousing, and Quark did not trust a second of it.

“Thanks, I think...” he managed - somewhat muffled, as he could not (and would not) extricate his head from the crook of Odo’s neck.

“You’re welcome. I think.” Odo replied, stroking Quark’s back with fondness. Quark determined there and then that he must at least try to enjoy this opportunity while it lasted. He squeezed Odo’s shoulders and nestled further against his side, daring Odo to object. When he did not immediately do so, but instead deepened the embrace with a contented sigh, Quark’s suspicion only multiplied.

Abruptly, as if sensing Quark’s internal struggle and wanting no part of it, Odo stood up and made for the exit. Quark fell backward onto the chair with a bounce.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

“Replicator.”

“What for?”

Odo turned back and fixed Quark with an unfathomable expression. “Supplies. You _do_ want me to return the favor, no?”

For the second time in ten minutes, Quark found himself at a loss for words. His mind went utterly blank, the only factoids remaining being his quarterly earnings, various insults he was saving up for Rom, and certain Rules of Acquisition.

“‘Sometimes the only thing more dangerous than a question is an answer,’” he quoted, hoping to sound cleverer than he felt.

“Is that a yes?” inquired Odo, not unkindly, still hovering near the door. Quark studied his features. He liked to think that he was something of an expert in sussing out deception, and he was shocked to find no trace of same in Odo’s quiet, open gaze.

“Yeah,” he replied, gaining confidence. “Yeah, it is.”

With a pleased nod, Odo departed.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I left "supplies" deliberately vague... ;)


End file.
